


the carelessness of running away

by shineyma



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Episode: s03e10 Maveth, F/M, Season/Series 03
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-02
Updated: 2016-02-02
Packaged: 2018-05-17 18:55:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,053
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5881870
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shineyma/pseuds/shineyma
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jemma isn't sure of anything at all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the carelessness of running away

**Author's Note:**

> I have been fighting this fic FOREVER and it is such a relief to have it finally cooperate, y'all have no idea.
> 
> I am slightly behind on comment replies, which I'll try and fix tonight or tomorrow. But it might not get done until after my entire-degree-depends-on stupid exam on Saturday. Sorry!
> 
> Thanks for reading and, as always, please be gentle if you review!

“Are these quarters under surveillance?”

Will’s voice is colder than she would have imagined him capable of, and it leaves Jemma curling farther back into the couch. She tries to convince herself it’s an act—the way imprisoning Fitz and praising Ward and demanding an accounting of his Inhuman army were all acts—but her confidence is wavering.

All she has to go on is the _play along_ he whispered in her ear six hours ago—that and the smile Fitz gave her before being dragged away. She _wants_ to believe that this is what she thinks it is, that Will is pretending to be the creature for the benefit of HYDRA, but she’s terrified that it’s precisely the reverse.

After fourteen years on a planet together, It would be well qualified to impersonate Will for her benefit.

“Yes, Lord Maveth,” Malick says, in the same horribly obsequious tone he’s been using for hours. “Every room in the complex is.”

“Turn it off,” Will orders. His gaze wanders to her, and she hugs her knees to her chest at the weight of it. “We want privacy for our reunion.”

He’s not presuming to speak for her; he’s been referring to himself in the plural since he stepped through the portal. She’s not sure whether to assign it to Will’s best impersonation of an ancient evil or an _actual_ ancient evil’s natural arrogance.

She’s not sure of anything at all.

“Of course, my Lord,” Malick agrees, and she swallows back a slightly hysterical giggle. It becomes easier to suppress when she realizes that Ward, unlike the various foot soldiers that accompanied them into the room, has not yet left; he’s lingering by the door, watching her with what she might call concern, were he anyone else. “I’ll see it done.” Malick pauses. “Ward?”

Will moves between them, blocking her view of Ward, and a very little bit of the tension in her spine eases. He might have claimed that he would never hurt her, but his lack of personal involvement in her torture doesn’t change the fact that he stood back and let it happen—and it certainly doesn’t erase everything else he’s done.

Luckily, Malick’s prompting seems to do the trick, because Ward doesn’t linger much longer. After a glib, “You got it, boss,” he slips out, and when Malick follows, the door clicks closed behind him.

They’re alone.

Will turns back to face her, and for a long, long moment, they simply stare at each other. She doesn’t know what he’s thinking, but for herself, she’s searching his expression, hoping for _some_ kind of sign, some indication—a single shred of evidence which will tell her, one way or the other, precisely with whom she’s dealing.

Before she finds one, a quiet _beep_ breaks the tense silence. Following the sound, they both look up to see that the red light on the camera tucked into the corner of the ceiling (no need for HYDRA to be subtle with its surveillance in its own base, after all) has gone out.

When Will looks back down at her, a smile has lightened his face.

“Jemma,” he says, and for a moment she’s frozen, because no evil, ancient creature, no matter how practiced at deception, could _possibly_ hope to imitate the way Will says her name.

(Could it?)

“Will,” she breathes, and scrambles up off the couch, intending to throw herself at him.

She doesn’t have the chance; he’s already there, catching her up in his arms the moment she’s on her feet, and in a heartbeat, his lips are meeting hers for a kiss _months_ overdue. She melts into him gladly, sinking her hands into his hair and reveling in the beat of his heart against her chest.

He’s alive and he’s _here_ ; after so long spent fearing she would never see him again, the relief and joy she’s feeling now are overpowering.

Though not nearly so overpowering as desire.

She deepens the kiss as his hands slide up under her jumper, and her whole body thrums under his familiar calluses. His skin is warm, mouth hungry, and she gets so lost in it, in  _him_ , that for a minute, she almost forgets—but then the edge of his palm brushes the scar on her side, and everything comes crashing back in as he stills.

There’s a pause, somehow even tenser than the one that followed Malick and Ward’s departure, and then Will draws back. Jemma keeps her eyes closed, trying desperately to cling to the bliss of their reunion. It’s the first honest, simple happiness she’s felt in—god, she doesn’t even know how long. Every positive emotion these days is tempered by guilt or grief or anger; it was nice to put everything else aside, if even for a second.

“Jemma?” Will asks, and, reluctantly, she opens her eyes. He’s frowning, plainly quite concerned, and she knows she won’t be able to brush him off.

So she steps back, holding up a hand to keep him in place when he looks about to follow.

“It’s easier to show you,” she says, and takes her time removing her jacket and laying it on the couch. While she’s at it, she toes off her boots (no need to keep them on; Ward found and confiscated her improvised weapon hours ago) and lines them up under the coffee table.

Then, out of ways to stall, she turns back to Will.

Slowly, she lifts the hem of her jumper up to the bottom of her bra, that he might view the new scars marring her midsection. When she risks a glance at him, his face is utterly blank, and a chill sweeps over her, washing away the warmth his touch left in her skin. For the hundredth time, she’s left questioning his identity.

Doubting him hurts worse than torture did.

“What happened?” he asks, hand coming to rest over the worst scar. “These look…”

“Deliberate,” she completes, quietly. “HYDRA was desperate to open the portal and displeased to find me uncooperative.”

He studies the scars, touch feather light as he traces the raised edge of the burn scar that caught his attention in the first place.

“These—” He stops and clears his throat, and when he speaks again, his voice is a little less rough. “Malick did this?”

“Not personally,” she says. “But it was on his order, yes. The actual culprit was a telekinetic—I never caught his name.”

Will barely seems to hear her; his eyes have found the scar near her waistline, the one that’s very nearly faded. “How long have they had you? Fitz never—he didn’t—”

It’s not like Will to stumble over his words, and she lets her jumper fall, hiding her scars from both of them, in the hopes it will help him regain his balance.

“It’s only been a day,” she says, tucking away the question of Fitz (because Fitz is a _very_ large question) for the moment. “They have an Inhuman who can accelerate healing. You met him earlier—the one who helped you stand when you arrived. I imagine he accelerated your adjustment period, else you’d be in terrible shape right now.”

“I remember him,” Will confirms quietly.

“I had an awful time re-accustoming myself to life on Earth,” she muses, “and I was only gone for six months. After fourteen years, your experience would undoubtedly be magnitudes worse. I suppose I should thank him for what he spared you.”

“But?” he asks.

“But he worked in concert with the telekinetic to ensure that I…”

She trails off, unable to put to words the collaboration between her tormentors—unable to find a way to explain it without actually describing what it was like, being ripped apart and then forcibly sewn back together solely for the sake of being ripped apart again.

Most torture, she imagines, is limited in scope by the need to keep the subject of it alive. Her torturer had no such limitations; if not for the Inhuman healer, she would have died of blood loss and/or shock within the first twenty minutes.

More than once, she even wished for it.

“Once Fitz gave them what they wanted,” she says instead, “the Inhuman healed all of my wounds. Except this one, of course.” She raises a hand to the cut on her cheek, then drops it without making contact. Will’s eyes follow her hand. “It was generally agreed that I should be in good health for whatever plans…the creature…might have for me.”

She can’t keep the question out of her tone, and Will sighs.

“Guess it’s my turn to explain,” he says, wryly, and drops heavily onto the couch. “The day you escaped—”

(He doesn’t say _the day you left me behind_ , of course, because Will would never say such a thing. It’s how Jemma has always thought of it, though, and so she puts aside her indecision and concerns and takes a seat next to him, hoping to chase away her guilt with the heat of his skin.)

“—I fought It,” he says, taking her hand without pause. “I didn’t really think I could win. I just wanted to stall It long enough for you to get home.”

Which she’s always suspected, of course, but actually _hearing_ it…

“Thank you,” she murmurs, and he squeezes her hand.

“I don’t know what happened, exactly,” he says. “With the storm—I could barely see. But I shot It, and I heard it make this—this sound. Then the storm stopped, and the sun rose, and I was alone.”

She bites back on the urge to apologize—that can wait until later—and leans into him. When she rests her head on his shoulder, he kisses her hair, and tears sting at her eyes.

“I don’t know if I killed It,” he continues, after a pause. “Maybe It just went to the other side of the planet to lick Its wounds, or maybe It went into hibernation, or…I don’t know. Either way, I never saw It again.”

Those words _should_ come as a shock, she knows. The idea of the creature being dead, after how long she spent fearing the possibility of inadvertently bringing it to Earth, should be astonishing. Instead, it just feels…right. Of _course_ Will could defeat the creature. Of course he survived while It either perished or fled with Its (possibly non-metaphorical) tail between Its legs. How could she have expected anything less?

He could be lying. It’s still possible that this is the creature, pretending to be Will for reasons unknown.

But the suspicion is half-hearted—reflexive, even. It may be able to call up storms, change the face of a planet, and drive people mad, but she can’t imagine It could imitate the way Will touches her—could reproduce the sheer _presence_ of his love for her.

Still…

“So what happened today?” she asks, and he huffs a laugh.

“Fitz happened,” he says. “One minute I was asleep, the next Fitz was falling into the cave and telling that Ward guy that I was no one important and that they should keep moving.”

There’s a question in his tone at Ward’s name, but that’s an explanation she’s happy to leave for another day. Or year.

Instead, she focuses on the point. “He tricked Ward into bringing you along.”

“Yeah,” Will agrees. “Ward had plenty to say about you and me, and about Fitz being jealous—that guy’s kind of an asshole.”

She laughs. Will has _no idea_.

“But once we got moving, he had all kinds of questions about whether there was anyone else on the planet and how long I’d been there. Add to that what Fitz said about HYDRA wanting to bring the creature to Earth, and I put it together: Ward thought I was It.”

“And obviously you played along,” she says.

He looks a little sheepish. “It seemed like a good idea at the time.”

“Oh, it was,” she assures him. “Ward likely would have killed you, otherwise. He certainly wouldn’t have brought you home.”

“Yeah.” He sits back against the couch and Jemma, questions about this ‘Lord Maveth’ nonsense appeased, curls into his side at once. “But something tells me admitting to the lie would be a mistake.”

Jemma grimaces. “Yes, I’m afraid so. I suppose you’ll just have to…play along until we can contact SHIELD for assistance.”

“Any idea how long that’ll be?” he asks, though he doesn’t sound particularly hopeful.

“Well, they took my phone away,” she says. “And as you’re supposed to be an ancient Inhuman who left this planet millennia ago, I suspect telling them you have a private call to make might rouse some suspicion.”

“Just a bit,” he agrees wryly.

“So it might be a while,” she concludes, a bit dejectedly. She wants far away from HYDRA and all of its various monstrous agents. “But we’ll be fine.”

“We will,” he says, with rather more confidence than her. “And so will Fitz.”

“That’s why you had him locked up,” she says. It’s not a question.

One of the first things he did upon arriving—at least once the Inhuman healer stabilized him—was order that Fitz be put in a cell. At the time, she was terrified; he quoted Fitz’s feelings for her as the reason he wanted to handle her best friend personally, and that, combined with the way he looked at and spoke to her, made her fear he really was just It wearing Will’s face.

Now that she’s been reassured as to his identity, however, she can see the strategy behind the order. As long as HYDRA believes that Will—or It, rather—is looking forward to hurting Fitz, they won’t do it themselves as a twisted sort of favor.

“Yeah,” Will says. “And why I…” He makes a little gesture, which she imagines is meant to refer to the way he treated her in the company of HYDRA: his deliberately frightening words and the proprietary way he touched her. “I’m sorry if I scared you.”

“You did,” she admits, because his miserable tone makes it clear he knows, and it would be silly to lie. “But it’s all right. Apology accepted.”

He hugs her close, and she cuddles into him eagerly. So many times, she gave into despair and tried to accept that she would never see him again; even with HYDRA just outside their door, this feels like a wonderful dream.

…Which reminds her. Cuddling, lovely though it is, wasn’t what they dreamed about when they were on the planet.

“Well,” she says, tilting her head back against his shoulder to look up at him, “you’re home. So what will it be first? Eat, shower, or sleep?”

Will laughs.

“I don’t see any food here,” he says. “And after hiking halfway across the planet to make that portal…” He drags the arm not firmly wrapped around her over his face and grimaces. “Shower, definitely.”

“Good choice,” she compliments, and he grins.

“Thank you,” he says, mock-serious. Then he sobers, looking suddenly almost nervous. Or…not nervous, perhaps. Apprehensive? She can’t quite place his expression. “Care to join me?”

Jemma blinks. A shower would be more than welcome; though her torturer was considerate (if a torturer can be called any such thing) enough to wipe away the blood his attentions left smeared on her skin, she can hardly be called clean.

She’s just not certain why the question put such an odd look on Will’s face.

“Of course,” she says. Perhaps he doesn’t _want_ to share, and only felt obligated to offer? “Unless you’d rather have it to yourself?”

“No,” he says at once. “No, I’d…like you with me.” He searches her face. “Unless…”

“Unless?”

“You and Fitz,” he says, carefully. “If there’s something there, I don’t wanna get in the way of—”

“No,” she interrupts.

There’s an odd battle in her chest, a struggle between her lingering shame over the way she’s disappointed Fitz and the warmth of her love for Will. She should’ve guessed that was his concern; of _course_ Will, after months of separation and a rescue that necessitates he impersonate the monster that terrorized him for fourteen years, is still selfless enough to worry about feelings other than his own.

“No,” she says again. “There’s nothing to get in the way of.”

“Oh,” Will says. “Well. Good.”

He looks relieved and, overcome by affection, she stretches to kiss him. He returns it willingly, twisting to hold her properly, and before she knows it she’s laid out across the couch, his body a lovely weight on top of hers, pressing her down into the cushions. She can feel every inch of him but, despite the way his thumb is creeping beneath the waistband of her jeans, there’s no urgency in the kiss. It’s just…happy. Fond.

It reminds her of the planet, of the days they spent lying together, learning each other once she accepted that there was no going home. They had plenty of sex, of course (and excellent sex, at that), but mostly they just…touched, Jemma seeking physical comfort and Will hungry for skin contact after fourteen years alone.

And then she left, running back to Earth without him and abandoning him once more to solitude—and deprivation. He was denied all of the comforts she’s enjoyed these last few months.

Well, that ends now.

“Shower,” she says, shoving lightly at his shoulders. “Come on.”

“No, this,” he kisses his way down her neck, thumb sweeping over her hipbone, “this is good.”

She frames his face in her hands, enjoying the simple luxury of it—of being able to touch him, to feel the scratch of his beard against her palms, after months of longing—as she forces him to meet her eyes.

“Yes,” she says, “and it will be even better without clothes.”

Will pauses. “Good point.”

He rolls to his feet and, before she can more than sit up, scoops her easily into his arms.

“Will!” she gasps, clutching his shoulders.

“I got you,” he promises, and turns to the door that leads further into the suite. “Now, come on. Let’s see what kind of rooms being a monster gets you.”

The answer, it turns out, is very, very nice ones.


End file.
